


crude matter

by neverfadingrain



Series: luminous verse [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Pre-Movie(s), listen you know how finn and rey grow up, what makes you think the hdm version of events is any safer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverfadingrain/pseuds/neverfadingrain
Summary: A settling story, in three parts:FN-2187’s dæmon keeps changing forms, right up until the moment she doesn’t  |  When Kazmiir settles, there are 712 tally marks scratched into the side of the AT-AT  |  Everyone assumes Poe’s Nataaria settles when Shara Bey dies





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is intended to be read directly after [luminous beings are we](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5747602/) and will probably not make a whole bunch of sense without having read that first. trigger warnings for: uncomfortable first order practices re: stormtroopers and daemon-bond stretching.
> 
> many, many thanks to zoe, who gives the best constructive criticism in the world; to kate, for putting up with my endless rambling and for multiple editing sessions; and to haley, who, despite having read not a single word of this, is entirely responsible for the way it turned out.
> 
> daemon names, forms and meanings in the end notes!

 

 

**FINN**

 

 

FN-2187’s dæmon keeps changing forms, right up until the moment she doesn’t.

He doesn’t have any knowledge of this, of course. Stormtrooper dæmons are kept separated, locked away in a separate wing of the Academy. The cadets are told that this is for their own good, that dæmons are a disruption to the perfect uniformity that the First Order demands.

This is one of the things that FN-2187 questions when his fire squad gets transferred up to the _Finalizer_ , because all the officers and technicians have neat little animals trotting at their heels or perched on their shoulders. This is one of the things that leads FN-2187 to his desperate escape plan, but as a kid—as a _cadet_ —FN-2187 thinks nothing of the enforced distance.

They have carefully rationed visitation periods, decreasing in frequency the older the cadets get. It’s on one of these rare visits, when FN-2187’s cadre is in their second phase of training, that he notices something strange about the dæmon that shares his ID.

Every time he’s seen her, the dæmon has flicked between different animals. Some large, barely fitting in her cage, some small enough that she could creep through the bars if they weren’t electrified. It’s been as if she can’t make up her mind what she wants to be, like she has to try as many animals as she can to see what fits. And, more bizarrely, she always asks FN-2187 his opinion of her latest form.

As if FN-2187 has any idea what a dæmon might like to be.

 _I don’t understand why it matters_ , he says one time, in that weird internal voice that the dæmon taught him how to use. Nobody else has ever heard FN-2187 when he’s using it, and he wonders absently if everybody has their own internal voice that he can’t hear.

She sighs at him, flicks through a series of shapes so fast FN-2187 can barely track the movement, and finally pauses as some sort of six-legged feline with prominent white fangs.

The next time FN-2187 is allowed to come see her, she’s wearing the form of a whip-thin gray canine, with a triangular head and a long tail that coils behind her. There’s a weight to her presence that wasn’t there before, a hoarseness to her voice. She preens for him, comes as close to the bars as she dares, her eyes bright and intelligent and _proud._

FN-2187 never sees her change again.

 

***

 

If he thinks back far enough, FN-2187 has a hazy recollection of the time _before_ they pulled his dæmon from him. A scattered handful of memories, a bright spot of warmth against his side, a comfortingly familiar voice when everything around him is cold and new.

But mostly, FN-2187 remembers _pain._

A blinding, stabbing ache reaching deep into every part of him. Pain that never seemed to relent, ebbing and flowing in waves but always there at the back of his mind. As the FN cadets grew older, they were taught to focus on things despite the discomfort. To draw on it, use it to fuel their service to the First Order, make them stronger.

When they were toddlers, they were organized into creches of 100. Each creche had an accompanying kennel in the next room over. By the time they were graduating from the Academy, about to be deployed on First Order Star Destroyers across the galaxy, the kennels were in an entirely separate building halfway across the campus.

But when FN-2187 has trouble sleeping in the middle of the night, surrounded by the low rhythm of his brothers and sisters’ breathing, he’ll think back to that fuzzy memory. To the voice as familiar as his own, even though he barely ever hears it anymore, and that odd peace in his bones that somehow hurts even more keenly.

 

 

***

 

There is a question that FN-2187 does not ask, and should have.

How can he ask a question he doesn’t know needs answering?

If FN-2187 had known he was supposed to, though, he would have asked his dæmon where she learned about the shape she takes as her own. Because Stormtrooper dæmons are confined to the kennels their whole lives, and they’re kept together in cadres just like the troopers. They are isolated and hidden away, exposed to as few forms as possible to maintain uniformity.

No one at the Academy has a vornskr dæmon.

(The day after she Settles, FN-2187 sneaks into his Weapons and Strategies classroom ten minutes early and does a frantic holonet search to figure out what she could possibly be this time. They have limited holonet access, and FN-2187 knows that the instructors monitor class-usage even closer. But he’s curious—the dæmon had seemed so _proud_ of herself, like she’d accomplished something magnificent—and anyways, maybe the instructors will reward him for his initiative.)

So. If FN-2187 had asked, his dæmon would have answered. And FN-2187 would have discovered a secret known to only a few.

But he doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t know he’s supposed to wonder about these sorts of things. And the ghostly vornskr dæmon that prowls the Academy kennels at night, sharing stories and histories and quietly keeping watch over hundreds of Stormtrooper souls, goes undiscovered.

She is fierce, proud, dignified. At least a meter tall, tail lashing wildly behind her and illuminating the space with a faint blue glow. The vornskr stalks down the rows upon rows of cages,

It takes years of visits from the ghostly spectre before she’ll admit her name to the dæmons she watches over. But, “Qaehi,” she says. “My human was called Mace, before he became one with the Force.”

She claims that the great Jedi Masters of old, those who had learned to walk through the Force after death, had made a pact to watch over the future generation. “Why are you _here_ , then?” one particularly intrepid daemon asks.

“I can see fractures in the Force. Pivotal moments, where the fate of the galaxy stands upon a knife’s edge. One of those fractures happens to be right here,” Qaehi says, so flatly that none of them dare to question her further, and the subject is never brought up again. But every night she continues to appear without fail.

Most of the time she’ll spin them stories of grand battles of the Clone Wars, of the warriors she served with over the years who all had their own dæmons, their own personalities. Qaehi describes them in such detail, in fact, that the unsettled dæmons in their cages begin to test their forms.

The dæmon in the cage labeled “FN-2187” tests her limits, just like the others. But only one form feels right; a scaled down version of Qaehi’s own stately shape that she tries on a whim. Something resonates in her bones, shakes her down to her core. It’s only when she tries to shift again, panicked, that she realizes what must’ve happened.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**REY**

 

 

When Kazmiir settles, there are 712 tally marks scratched into the side of the AT-AT.

His settling is not remarkable; they simply wake up one day and feel it in their bones, like the old crones can feel a sandstorm coming on long before it reaches Niima. A weight, soft and reassuring like a blanket wrapped around Rey’s shoulders, grounding them both.

His feathered serpent form is the same familiar shape he’s held onto since before they can remember, the same shape he’d worn when they’d been left on Jakku. It’s a comfort to both of them, one of the few things they have to hold onto from Before. Kaz has taken several different shapes as needed—an enormous luggabeast to scare off other scavengers, an agile needle rat to reach delicate salvage parts—but he’s always changed back.

Just like Rey takes the time to carefully tie her hair into three buns each morning.

 _Now there’s no chance our family won’t recognize us,_ Kaz says, his distinctive humming increasing in pitch with his breathing. His tail flicks from side to side with excitement.

Rey breathes out a little easier this morning than any other before it. She hadn’t told Kaz that she was worried about him settling; she should’ve guessed that he knew anyways. Kaz has an answer for all of her questions except one (the most important one). And if he had an answer for that, well.

If Kaz had an answer for where their family was, then they wouldn’t still be on Jakku.

 

***

 

Names are meaningless in the desert. The days are long, unyielding, full of too hard work and too little food for a child. There’s a herd of orphans that runs wild around Niima, a handful of scruffy children with hollow eyes and desperate hands, who have no names because there is no one who will use them. If Unkar Plutt had ever been told what she and her dæmon were called, when their family left them in his care, he just as quickly forgot. For countless days, they are simply called _girl_ and _dæmon_ as they work from sunup to sundown on the Crolute’s fleet of salvaged ships.

In light of that, it’s no surprise that they forget what they had been called Before. The knowledge simply fades from their minds, like the memory of their parents’ faces and the reason they’ve been left behind.

For hundreds of days, etched painstakingly into a sheet of scrap metal hidden in their little tent on the edge of the shipyard, they resist the idea of taking on new names. _It won’t be right, it won’t be the same,_ she insists, brought nearly to tears at the idea of getting their names wrong. Water is precious in the desert, and crying is a useless waste. She hasn’t cried since the first time Unkar told her she hadn’t done enough work to earn a daily ration, but tears well up in her eyes nonetheless.

What’s the point of a name, after all, but to identify themselves to others?

 _Our family will know us no matter what,_ her dæmon insists.

_But what if they don’t?_

So they remain nameless, long after Niima becomes too dangerous to keep living in for a young girl on her own. After Unkar tells them that he doesn’t need their services in the shipyard anymore, that they’ll have to come up with some other way of earning rations. Even after they stumble over the husk of an AT-AT wrecked in the sand, long ago stripped of useful parts, and decide to make it their new home.

 _I want a name,_ her dæmon declares, voice a thin whisper in the echoing silence of the Graveyard. They’re working their way through a Star Destroyer that crashed bow first into the dunes, the third or fourth one they’ve scavenged. Experience has taught them that the only useful parts left anymore are at the stern, miles above them in a deadly climb that only the bravest of scavengers would dare to attempt.

They are not brave, but they are desperate. On Jakku, that means the same thing.

She frowns at her dæmon, coiled around her shoulders with his vibrant feathers gleaming in the dusty light. _We’ve talked about this_ , she says, and starts the ascent up the gaping interior of the Star Destroyer.

 _No,_ you _made a decision about this,_ her dæmon says insistently, wrapping himself more securely around her. _You don’t have to take a name, if you don’t want, but I’m going to._

_And what happens when our family comes back for us, and it’s not the right name?_

He sticks his long, forked tongue in her ear, hissing sibilant laughter when she squeaks. _Who decides whether a name is right or not? It’s my name; when we learn what I was called Before then I’ll just keep the one I like better._

She scoffs. They’ve been nameless for so long that she can’t begin to fathom the possibilities. None of the names she’s heard around Niima have appealed. _What would you even want to be called?_

For a long moment, the only sound in the Star Destroyer is the gentle hum of her dæmon’s breathing. _Kazmiir,_ he says finally. _I choose the name Kazmiir._

_What the kriff kind of name is Kazmiir?_

_Rude_ , her dæmon says, affronted, and flickers into the shape of a scree hawk. He launches off her shoulder with a squeeze of talons, making her fumble her grasp on delicate handholds, and flies out to the end of their range and back. He flutters in graceful circles around her as she climbs, riding the dusty currents of air, and spins for her a story.

She doesn’t recall ever hearing it before, can’t imagine where her dæmon might have learned it from, but it instantly catches her attention. Her dæmon’s voice is hushed, reverent almost, echoing off the ship’s bones surrounding them. He paints a vivid picture of the galaxy As It Was, long ago, when the fabled Jedi might have led thousands of star systems into forming the Republic.

 _But not all the planets agreed with the Jedi, not everyone wanted peace,_ he whispers, sweeping in close enough to clip her hair with his wing. _Acolytes of Darkness, calling themselves the Sith, gathered power in secret under the Jedi’s noses. And when they were strong enough, they waged a war on the Jedi that shook the stars. A war that lasted_ millions _of days. They called it the Hundred Year Darkness, because the Sith extinguished any light they could._

She shivers, stomach turning at the idea. A year is not a measurement of time they’re overly familiar with—it’s not something they can measure with Jakku’s constant harsh conditions, not like the sun rising and birthing each new day—but she knows, loosely, that several years have passed since their family left them in Unkar’s care.

A hundred years? That’s got to be two lifetimes, at least.

Her hands are clammy, trembling loosely in their grip on the wall. She’s climbed so far she can’t see the ground, a silent threat looming below her. If she falls now, her dæmon might be able to shift into something large enough to catch her. More likely, though, she’ll simply plummet to her sandy doom.

 _You’re making this up,_ she says fiercely, accusing. Shoves the thought of lifetimes of darkness away so it can’t touch her.

Her dæmon makes a rasping noise in the back of his throat, so different from the constant humming that accompanies him in his snake form, and glides again to the end of their range. _Am not,_ he grumbles, _I heard it from the spacers’ daemons in Niima. They said the war went on so long, was so devastating, that eventually the Jedi sent a strike force to Moraband, the Sith homeworld, to wipe them out._

_This strike force was made up of the strongest, the most skilled Jedi, and had saved over a dozen worlds from the Sith’s impact already. Peace negotiations had already been tried and failed, so the warriors were ordered to purge the Sith from the galaxy. Not the Jedi way, but the Sith had brought devastation to so many that the Jedi Council ordered an attack on Moraband in response. The strike force had the advantage of strength and surprise, but there were so many Sith on Moraband that by the time the battle had ended, even though they were victorious there were only two Jedi left alive._

They make it to the stern of the Star Destroyer at last; she heaves herself up, over the final ledge and has to lay there for a minute, breathing heavy, every muscle in her body trembling from the exertion. Her dæmon comes crashing down to her side, flicking back into his favorite snake shape at the last moment so that he thumps onto her stomach in a coil of tan scales and brilliantly colored feathers.

 _The survivor’s names were Isasha and Kazmiir,_ he says into the stillness.

_Isn’t it a bit…disrespectful, to name yourself after a mythical Jedi?_

_No_ , her dæmon says blithely.

She levers herself off the bulkhead just enough to look down at him in disbelief. _The Jedi that ended a galactic war? Really? How many ‘Kazmiir’s’ do you think there are in the galaxy?_

 _But I like it,_ he says sulkily, all the bright feathers on his back flattening out. _It sounds important._

She sighs, relents. _Fine_. Her breath mostly back, she pushes herself up from the ground with one hand and cradles her…Kazmiir in the other. He swipes his tongue over the skin of her wrist in thankfulness, slithering up to coil securely around her arm. Inside wrecked ships, she needs both hands available at all times; carrying her dæmon around everywhere would be not just inconvenient but a threat to their survival.

 _Thank you_.

 _No one else is going to know. Or care,_ she mutters lowly, ducking under a stretch of fuel pipes and searching for the control panel that surely accompanies them. She pries off the metal cover and can’t help the sharp inhale when it comes loose to reveal a treasure trove of wiring. _Can I call you Kaz?_

Kazmiir is quiet for a long moment, studying the nest of wires. Finally he undulates against her skin, the snake version of a nod, and his humming rises gently in pitch.

_I like that too._

 

***

 

The first time they see the ghost, she’s so hungry she thinks she’s hallucinating.

They’re working over one of Unkar’s ships, trying to decipher the tangled mess of wiring and turn it into a working navi-computer. There’s a sound at the other end of the hallway, and she looks up because she’d thought they were alone on the freighter.

Startled, she lets out a squeak that has her dæmon slipping into the form of a ripper-raptor and mantling his wings.

If it’s not a hallucination, she has no idea what it is. Can’t think of any other reason to be seeing a sand-colored feline the size of a luggabeast, with a long tail that flicks from side to side and ominous white tusks poking out of its lower jaw. The cat is oddly see-through in the confines of the ship, tinged blue at the edges.

“Do not be afraid, child,” the hallucination tells her. “We are watching over you.”

Before she can ask what that means, Unkar’s pounding steps echo up the ramp of the ship. The cat shakes its head, tusks flashing through the air, and fades from view like it was never there to begin with.

Her dæmon mutters something derogatory under his breath.

The next time is much the same—she sees the cat out of the corner of her eye when she curls up to sleep behind Unkar’s stand, startled out of a half doze. The cat looks inexplicably saddened when it looks at her, ears drooping and tail swaying low to the ground.

“Who are you?” she hisses furiously, trying not to draw attention their way. Unkar won’t be pleased if she wakes him up, and Constable Zuvio’s men have been looking for an excuse to pry her out of her makeshift shelter for days.

The hallucination shivers, fading out a little. In the dim light of Jakku’s moon, they can see the buildings on the other side of the narrow alley _through_ the cat.

Her dæmon grumbles. “What do you want, ghost?” he demands.

“You may rest without fear tonight. I will keep watch.”

No matter what else they ask, no answers are forthcoming. The cat is as silent as if it had never spoken at all. They sleep fitfully, as usual, and every time they wake the cat is still there; curled up in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness, but unquestionably keeping vigil over them.

Over the years, they learn not to fear the cat. By the time Rey realizes it’s not a hallucination at all but rather the ghost of someone’s dæmon, she’s perfected the art of scaling Star Destroyers and mastered all the levels of her scavenged flight simulator. The cat comes and goes, with long stretches of days between the briefest of appearances, walking with them atop sand dunes or keeping guard over the landspeeder while they scavenge.

The ghost doesn’t ever say much; talking seems to tire her out faster than anything else, and it’ll be over a month before she appears again.

When she comes around the side of the AT-AT suddenly and curls up by Rey’s side—a mere two days since her last visit, which has never happened before—Rey is wary, but not alarmed. She’s long since lost her fear of the ghost. Kaz, however, does enough worrying for both of them.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, followed by something in dæmonspeak that could be either an insult or a term of affection. It’s hard to tell with Kaz sometimes.

The ghost rolls her eyes at them both. “Everything is about to change,” she says cryptically.

Rey blinks down at the other dæmon, still practically a stranger after so long. “Our family?” she asks. Unbidden, hope swells in her chest.

“I don’t know. I can’t see the future, only sense the vague currents of the Force. Never had the talent.”

“We still don’t know your name,” Rey says. She’s been asking off and on for as long as they’ve known the cat wasn’t a threat, and she’s mostly gotten used to the cat disappearing without answering. Mostly, it’s just made her curiosity burn brighter.

The ghost heaves a breath. “I suppose it can’t hurt anything, now,” she mutters, lifting her head from the sand. It sounds like an agreement, no matter how halfhearted. “My name is Chaiyan.”

Kaz hisses sharply, cutting himself off when the ghost—when _Chaiyan_ —glares at him.

“What?” Rey asks, but for once Kaz doesn’t explain himself.

Chaiyan is quiet for a long time, either trying to conserve her strength or waiting for Kaz to share whatever he’s realized. When the sun has disappeared entirely and it’s time to go inside before the temperature drops below freezing, she heaves herself to her feet. “Get some sleep,” she advises them, already starting to fade into the darkness. “And please, for all our sakes—help the droid.”

 

***

 

The life of a Jakku scavenger is never easy. Their days are long and hot, filled with countless trips to wreckage that’s been long picked over and only earn her a mouthful or two of food. She’s glad she has Kazmiir to talk to—some of the other orphans are species that craft their souls like armor, or find them in the mires of the desert, and she thinks that sounds unbearably lonely. It’s safer, to have Kazmiir act as lookout, than to trust their safety to anyone else.

She finds the X-Wing skeleton on one of her salvage trips, a stroke of good luck after a week of constant disappointment. The crash site is mostly undisturbed, recently uncovered by the sandstorm that had forced her inside early last night.

More importantly, it looks like she’s the first scavenger to find the ship. The X-Wing is intact, if badly damaged. Laser scarring has nearly broken off one wing and the hull paint is entirely worn off, but the internal wiring and parts should be enough to feed her for a hundred days, if not more.

She hauls the pilot’s body, which has long since decomposed into sun-bleached and sand-worn bone, from the cockpit and gives them as proper a burial as she can manage with ever-shifting sand. The pilot’s gear she takes without a second thought—including the Rebel Alliance-issue helmet, engraved with the pilot’s name.

“Raeh,” she says curiously, tasting the sound of it.

Kazmiir curls over her shoulder, scanning the horizon for other scavengers who might come and try to steal their wealth. _Raeh is a good name_ , he says.

 _What was she like, do you think? Did she have a family waiting for her too? Did she believe in the Rebellion, or was she forced to fight?_ Useless questions, since they have no way of finding out the answers, but that doesn’t stop her from wondering.

Her dæmon snorts, feathers rasping against her wraps. _She believed in it enough to die for it._

They work in near-silence for the rest of the day, broken only by Kaz’s soothing humming and the occasional question about the best way to salvage a part. It’s impossible to scavenge the entire ship for parts in a single day, so they focus on the most valuable things that can fit on the speeder and hope that the rest will still be there tomorrow. As it is, they barely have enough room—the speeder is unwieldy with so much metal strapped to its’ sides, threatening to flip more than once on the ride back home.

 _You’ve been thinking about it all day,_ Kaz says when they’re settled for the night. He’s nestled himself in a ball in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, and his humming combined with the warmth is quickly relaxing her enough to sleep.

She mumbles an agreement. _It’s weird, only one of us having a name. It feels…_

 _Unbalanced,_ Kaz finishes.

_Yeah._

He flicks his tail back and forth against her collarbone. _Would it really be so terrible to choose your own? We will not lose anything. Our family will come for us regardless._

“I suppose not,” she admits aloud. Her voice echoes in the dark confines of the AT-AT. “And I did like the name, earlier. Rey.”

 _It suits you_ , Kaz says, approving.

Rey drifts off to sleep in a nest of makeshift blankets, sheltered from the freezing cold of Jakku nights. She dreams of the bounty that the X-Wing carcass will fetch and of testing out the battered flight simulator she’d found in the pilot’s personal effects. And she dreams, as she does every night, of their family returning and sweeping them away from the harsh life of a Jakku scavenger.

In her dreams, her name whispers softly in the desert wind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**POE**

 

 

 Everyone assumes Poe’s Nataaria settled when Shara Bey dies. This is, strictly speaking, not true.

She discovers how much she likes being a stonebat in the days after Shara’s death, yes. But it’s years after that before she and Poe wake up one day to discover she can’t shift forms anymore.

When they’re growing up, little Nat takes all sorts of aerial forms. They’re enchanted with the freedom of flying, with all the potential that being airborne offers. Many a night goes by with a hissed debate about what Starfighter they want to fly when they’re old enough—an X-wing like the heroes in the stories, like Luke Skywalker, or an A-wing like his mamá.

His mamá’s a better hero than all those old X-wing pilots put together, in Poe’s eyes. Because his mamá is real and alive and _here_ , right in front of Poe where he can hug her whenever he wants. She never minds telling him the same stories over and over again until he can’t possibly keep his eyes open any longer.

When they’re three Shara teaches them the basics of piloting, takes Poe and Nat up in her old A-wing and shows them what Yavin IV looks like from atmo. Nat’s got her eager nose pressed to the glass the entire time, squeaking comments back to Poe while he puzzles out which controls to use to make the fighter do what he wants. His mamá’s Qyn laughs indulgently from his secure pouch fastened to the pilot’s seat.

Poe never wants the day to end. He goes up with her as often as he can after that, can’t get enough of being in the cockpit. Can’t imagine wanting to do anything else but fly.

Shara has to leave for long missions a couple times a year, and when she does she covers Poe’s face in kisses until he can’t stop giggling with joy. She does the same to his papá, and Qyn clings to his favorite perch between Azrah’s shaggy shoulders for as long as he can. Each time, they promise to come back, and Poe believes them because his mamá always keeps her promises. Until the day she doesn’t.

When he gets the news, Poe doesn’t understand. Refuses to believe it, because his mamá can’t be dead, she _can’t._ She promised she would come back, her and Qyn, and his mamá’s his hero and she’s never broken a promise to Poe _ever_. But then they go to the funeral, and they watch an empty casket get lowered into the ground—there isn’t even a body left to bury—and it all becomes suddenly too real for him.

Poe refuses to speak for three months after that, and Nataaria flickers into the shape of a stonebat for the first time and rarely changes again.

Qyn had been a bat, too.

 

***

 

“Dameron. Good. Glad to see you made it to Mirrin in one piece,” Major Deso says sternly.

Across the briefing table, Poe nods solemnly. Nat’s hidden herself under his Republic Navy dress uniform this morning, a conspicuous lump on his collarbone that disrupts the tight fit of the tunic. But Poe can feel her warmth, her pride in him and all they’ve accomplished, and he can’t bring himself to care.

They’ve been on Mirrin Prime less than twelve hours—had flown in late last night straight from two weeks of escort duty around the Hosnian System, collapsed straight into the assigned bunk after finishing post-flight checks, and gotten up early enough to hit the mess before his dawn meeting with the base’s commanding officer. So early, in fact, that BB-8 had bleeped rudely at him and opted to stay behind to finish recharging.

Poe still doesn’t know why they’re here.

The major’s lip twitches. He’s human, or at least base human, with pale skin and dark hair starting to go gray with age. His eyes, though, are darkly sharp and cut straight through Poe. And his dæmon, a stark black bird perched on his shoulder, continues to stare at them even after Deso leans forward to cue up a series of projections on the briefing table.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the specs for the new T-85s,” Deso says, gesturing to the hologram of an X-Wing now hovering between them.

Poe has, in fact. He practically drooled over them, when they first came out last year, spent hours poring over the most miniscule of differences between the T-85 and the older X-Wing models until he’d gone cross-eyed. The only base that keeps a handful of T-85s is—is this one, actually.

His breath catches in his throat. “I’m familiar with them, yes,” Poe says, sternly telling himself not to get his hopes up.

“Good,” Deso says. For the first time this morning, the major and his dæmon look pleased. He waves his hand again at the projection. “Then you won’t have any trouble flying one, I assume?”

Poe’s jaw drops so far it might as well be on the floor.

 _Did I hear him right? Are we getting an ’85?_ Nat squeaks, fur rustling against his tunic.

The briefing room is silent for a painfully long moment before Deso sighs and turns off the holoprojector. “Well, Dameron?”

“O-of course, sir, I’d be honored,” Poe stutters, struggling to find words that won’t make him come across as a cocky asshole. His previous commander had given Poe a warning—had said that Deso was a harsh but fair officer, who was willing to give his pilots a fair amount of leeway but had zero tolerance at all for flyboy egos. “Which squadron has an opening for me?”

“That’s the thing,” Deso says. For the first time, he hesitates. The bird dæmon on his shoulder mantles her wings, muttering something in the major’s ear.

Poe’s brow furrows. Surely there’s a spot for him? Surely the major wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of bringing Poe and Nat all the way out here for nothing. _Stars. We’re gonna get stuck topside for six months doing training drills again,_ he complains lowly to Nat, who worms her way up through the collar of Poe’s tunic in response.

 _Nonsense_ , she says reassuringly. _You’re the best pilot the Fleet’s got right now, and they know it._

 _Sure, and that’s why they put us on escort duty all the time_ , Poe snorts.

Deso’s graying eyebrows are low on his forehead, drawn together pensively. “You come highly recommended by all your previous commanding officers. When I asked around for a new squadron leader, your name was at the top of several lists. I trust you won’t make me regret taking this risk?”

He swallows heavily, suddenly feeling like there’s a stone lodged in his throat. Poe straightens up as proudly as he can, gives the crispest salute he knows how to. “Sir!”

“Good. Rapier Squadron’s got the latest in fighter technology; they deserve the best up-and-coming pilot to lead them.” Deso nods at him, then, favors Poe with an approving smile. “And I think that pilot deserves a promotion to go with his new position, don’t you?”

By the Maker. Poe can hardly believe his ears.

“You’re a bit young for commander, of course, but I’m sure you’ll grow into it. We’ll have the official ceremony in a couple days. In the meantime, your new squadron has orders to meet you in Hangar Twelve in twenty minutes. I assume that’s enough time for you?” Deso asks, arching an eyebrow.

“I—sure, of course. Thank you, sir, thank you so much,” Poe says. He’s nearly tripping over the words, trying to find the right ones to convey how kriffing _grateful_ he is. Opportunities like this don’t just fall into the laps of the unsuspecting. It’s practically unheard of to make commander at twenty-six; even Poe, who’s been climbing the ranks faster than usual, had assumed he had several more years before he could expect to lead his own squadron.

Deso waves an indulgent hand at him, dismissing him without words. His dæmon shuffles her wings, croaking after them as Poe tries to edge out of the briefing room with a straight face.

He barely makes it to the end of the hallway before a loud whoop bursts out of his chest, startling a passing technician. “Sorry,” Poe apologizes sheepishly, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and tries to contain himself to a brisk walk the rest of the way.

He heads all the way back to his assigned bunk to change into his flight suit and collect BB-8, who bleeps like a freighter pilot when Poe tells it what it’s missed, and then makes for the fighter bays. The base on Mirrin Prime is smaller than he expected—smaller than any other he’s been stationed at before, at least—and Poe makes good time through the hallways. He listens to BB-8 and Nat babble back and forth, lets the wave of pure delight wash over him, and pushes away all thoughts of how much responsibility he’s about to be taking on.

He can deal with all of that later, Poe decides. For now, he should just focus on making a good impression on his new squadron.

 _Rapier’s a good name,_ Nat tells him when she pauses for breath, even as BB-8 bloops and blats its way after them. _We’ll make them all proud, yeah?_

Poe thinks longingly of his mother’s smile, her hands guiding his on the A-Wing’s controls. He thinks of Uncle L’ulo, who he hasn’t seen in years, and General Antilles giving him extra time in the flight sims because ‘anyone could see you’re gonna be somethin’, kid, and I owed Shara one.’ He thinks of Luke Skywalker, the one hazy memory he has of the Jedi from his mamá’s funeral.

 _You bet we will,_ Poe says, squaring his shoulders.

When Poe enters Hangar Twelve a bare fifteen minutes later, BB-8 squealing along ahead of him, there are four absolutely gorgeous Starfighters resting in the bays along the far side. Two pilots are lounging against the side of the nearest one, chatting lowly as astromechs roll around their feet. They straighten up as Poe approaches, though, giving him nearly synchronized salutes.

It’s unexpected, to say the least. Poe may stumble a little bit over his own feet in surprise. “Oh geez, guys. Please don’t,” he says, raking a hand through his haphazard curls and trying to laugh it off. “I’m not a commander yet.”

“So…you’re _not_ Commander Dameron?” the pilot on the left says. He’s a couple inches taller than Poe, with dark hair and wide eyes that glimmer oddly in the hangar lighting. The dæmon on his shoulder is a hand sized mammal—a jocorro, Poe thinks, but he isn’t sure—with fluffy white feathers that darken to a smoky gray at each of her wingtips. A long feathery tail hangs off of his shoulder, brushing against the orange flight suit every time she shifts.

“Oh no, I am. I mean, I will be.”

Nat’s wing thumps against Poe’s collarbone painfully, her little claws catching and dragging at sensitive skin. _What the kriff, Poe_ , she hisses.

 _Shut up, okay, I’m trying,_ Poe snaps back. He turns his attention back to the pilots, who have matching expressions of restrained bafflement on their faces. “Uh, hi. Yes. Poe Dameron. Major Deso told me I’m getting a promotion approximately ten minutes ago, sorry. It’s still sinking in.”

Both of his new squadron mates visibly relax. “Well that’s alright, then,” the woman on the right says. Her hair is bleached blond and cut in a stylish mohawk, which stands out sharply against her dark skin. She towers almost an entire head above Poe, the long miles of her legs hidden in the orange flight suit.

At first, Poe thinks she’s one of the rare human-looking species that don’t manifest dæmons. But then a fist-sized rdava bird with radiant red and orange plumage gives a reedy whistle from on top of the nearest wingtip.

“Lieutenant Karé Kun,” the woman says, taking Poe’s hand firmly in her own and giving it a vigorous shake. “And that’s Laertes. Don’t pay him any mind, he’s a worrywart.”

The man seizes Poe’s hand as soon as Karé releases it. “Lieutenant Iolo Arana. And Mya,” he says, indicating the dæmon clinging to his shoulder with a one-sided shrug. Mya blinks at him with deliberate slowness, as though assessing Poe for worthiness.

Bb-8 makes an indignant warble and rolls into the center of their little group, popping out its taser attachment and waving it alarmingly close to Poe’s legs.

“No, buddy, I wasn’t forgetting about you,” Poe reassures it, grinning. BB-8’s been with him for years—the astromech was a present from his papá when he left for the Academy, and has followed him faithfully ever since—and tends to get a bit tetchy when it isn’t introduced in the first minute of a conversation.

BB-8 blats loudly and turns its head away from Poe, staring up at the two lieutenants opposite him.

Poe rolls his eyes. “This is BB-8, guys. Smartest droid in the galaxy,” he says, which makes BB-8 wobble back and forth and chirp proudly. “And Nataaria, of course,” Poe adds with a vague gesture towards his neck.

Nat, being Nat, chooses that moment to alight from Poe’s collar and flap a few lazy circles around his head. Once she’s sure she has the two lieutenant’s attention, she glides her way over to join Karé’s Laertes on the nearest Starfighter’s wing. The bond between them yawns with the distance, but Poe doesn’t even feel a twinge.

Iolo’s jaw nearly hits the floor, but Karé snaps her fingers together once. The expression on her face says that a great mystery has been solved. “Aha!” she says triumphantly. “Dameron. Knew I knew that name from somewhere.”

“Uh,” Poe says.

“Oh kriff,” Iolo says. “You were two years ahead of us at the Academy, weren’t you? Top of the class, set all those records for longest distance?” On his shoulder, Mya shifts uncomfortably and winds her tail a little tighter around his arm.

Karé’s nodding earnestly, so Poe doesn’t even bother trying to deny it. Besides, he’s the new wing leader; pilots respect those who push the hardest, go the farthest, risk the most. That’s always been Poe. Gaining a command doesn’t change that.

“That was us,” he says instead.

Karé whistles admiringly. Something catches her attention at the back of the hangar behind Poe, then. She throws an arm into the air, waving it furiously back and forth, and hollers, “Muran! Get your ass over here, come meet the new boss!”

When Poe turns to look, there’s another pilot slouching towards them, clad in a dark leather jacket instead of the usual flight suit. An elegant blue-furred mammal is gliding about two meters over his head, keeping pace, and his face is set into an impassive sort of scowl.

The guy looks familiar, Poe thinks, but he has no idea where from.

Iolo slings a companionable arm over Poe’s shoulders, careful to let Mya shift out of range as he does so, and beams at the newcomer. “Stars, Muran, you’ll never guess who this is.”

‘Muran,’ as the fourth pilot in Rapier Squadron seems to be called, rakes his eyes over Poe judgmentally. His gaze flickers to Nat once, perched comfortably next to Laertes with at least four meters of space between her and Poe, and his scowl deepens.

“Who?” he drawls.

“Poe kriffing _Dameron._ And he’s Rapier Leader,” Iolo says gleefully.

Not for the first time in his life, Poe has no idea what’s going on.

Karé shares the enthusiasm, apparently, because she steps up on Poe’s other side. “He _is_ the one who beat you out for first place at the Academy, right? You’ve complained about him enough times, I feel like I already know the guy,” she asks Muran.

Muran stares at Poe, his shreev dæmon dropping down to curl around his shoulders with a muted thump, and gives a distracted nod. “That’s the one,” he says flatly. “Should’a guessed you’d be the youngest Commander in a decade, Dameron. Well done.”

 _That class on the history of the Starfighter, senior year,_ Nat offers helpfully.

The memory drops into place with the force of an A-Wing. Poe gets a flash of leather jacket and a head bent over a holopad in the back of an Academy lecture hall, another of the class ranking sheets posted outside the mess two weeks before graduation and trying to figure out who the kriff had nearly beat him out for the top spot. So _that’s_ why the name had sounded familiar, he thinks.

“Thanks,” Poe says awkwardly, grateful when Nat chooses that moment to return to his side. Even if she does land atop his head and destroy any idea of professionalism the other pilots might’ve had about him. “So, uh—how would you guys feel about suiting up and seeing what these 85’s can do?”

 

***

 

Poe applies to the New Republic Flight Academy when they’re fourteen. A very polite letter is sent back with an apology, explaining that they don’t accept underage applicants but that Poe should apply again in a couple years’ time.

He tries again the next year, and the next. His papá isn’t too worried about the repeated refusals—says that Poe’s a natural, it’s only the rules holding them back—but Poe suspects his papá is also maintaining a secret hope that Poe will give up on his dreams of joining the New Republic Navy and become a local pilot, instead.

The fifth reply letter arrives on Poe’s eighteenth birthday, and it’s sitting on the kitchen table when he stumbles down the stairs in the morning. “G’morning,” Kes says cheerfully, already halfway through the plate of food in front of him. “Caf and breakfast are on the stove.”

Azrah is flopped in a lazy sprawl on the floor at his feet, half under Kes’ chair. She lifts her head and rumbles a greeting as Poe steps around her. Her thick fur is shaded brown and gold this morning, blending seamlessly into the sunlit kitchen, and it’s only through long practice that Poe avoids stepping on one of her many camouflaged limbs.

Fluttering down off of Poe’s shoulder, Nat lands in front of Azrah. The two dæmons speak to each other briefly, chattering so lowly that Poe has no hope of overhearing the conversation, before Azrah leans forward and bathes Nat from wing to wing with one long swipe of her tongue.

Nat makes a noise of disgust and hurls herself into the air again. But Poe can feel how delighted she is, underneath the façade, when Nat huddles herself into the hollow of Poe’s throat and instructs him to put more food on his plate. _You’re too skinny_ , she says, jabbing at the wings of Poe’s collarbones with her claws.

He winces. _Stop that. I am not._

_Are too._

“I dunno what you two are talking about, but I guarantee Nat’s right,” Kes says lazily. He’s not even looking at them, pretending to be utterly engrossed in the half-full cup of caf in front of him.

Poe scowls, and thumps heavily into the seat opposite his papá. That’s when he notices the envelope sitting in the center of the table, stamped with the Flight Academy’s seal in stark black ink, and his breath leaves him in a gigantic whoosh. “When did that get here?” he asks, forcing his voice to remain carefully even. Poe reaches a hand out like the letter will leap up and bite him, pinching one of the corners with just two fingers.

Nat makes a noise of excitement that vibrates against Poe’s skin. _This year’s gotta be the year. It_ has _to be,_ she says, high and squeaky.

Kes, on the other hand, takes a measured sip of caf. “Came for you in the mail yesterday,” he says. “Thought it’d make a nice birthday present.”

“They’re just gonna say no again,” Poe mutters. He’d sent in his application last month, same as the last four years, but he’s given up expecting anything to come of it. One more try, he’d decided, and when nothing came of it Poe had enough money saved up to buy a ticket to Pamarthe and enough courage screwed up to bully his way into the Flight Academy there, no matter how they feel about offworlders.

Azrah lifts her head from the floor, staring at Poe with her ice bright eyes. “Have faith, avecito,” she says, and Kes hums around his cup.

But Poe is nothing if not obstinate, so he eats his way steadily through the plate in front of him, ignoring Nat’s irritating whispers and Kes’ amused staring over the top of his datapad. It’s almost like any other morning, if Poe concentrates hard enough. Until he runs out of food, that is.

And the envelope is still in front of him. Taunting him.

“Oh, go on already,” Kes says exasperatedly. “You’re not doing anything now but causing yourself needless pain.”

Poe reluctantly picks up the envelope. Pretending not to notice how badly his hands are trembling, he peels open the flat and pulls out the two delicate sheets of flimsi folded inside.

It reads:

_To Mr. Dameron_

_We are pleased to accept your application to the New Republic Flight Academy. Enclosed you will find details for the new term, including a list of available courses and suggested travel options for getting to Hosnian Prime if you do not already have transportation. Cadets are not allowed to house personal Starfighters on base. Please reply within the week with confirmation of your attendance._

_Sincerely, Head Academy Instructor Caluan Ematt_

“Holy _Force_ ,” Poe says with a heavy exhale. The flimsi drops through his suddenly nervous fingers and flutters to the tabletop.

Kes leans forward, burning curiosity etched into the lines of his face. At his feet, Azrah hauls herself off the floor and pads around to Poe’s side of the table. She’s tall enough to read the flimsi on top if she cranes her head, the color of her fur rippling to match the sun-lightened wood on his side of the kitchen.

Nat takes to the air with a high-pitched squeak of delight, flying exuberant circles around Poe’s head and shouting _We did it! We got in! We did it!_ as loud as she can.

Poe beams across the table at his papá. “I’m in,” he says, hardly able to believe it.

Kes looks like he’s torn between overwhelming pride and sheer terror at the thought. “I knew you could do it, mijo,” he says at last, reaching out to ruffle Poe’s hair like he hasn’t done since Poe was eleven and decided he was too big for it.

Nat lands on top of his head as soon as Kes leans back again, still cheering. Her pointy wingtips dig into Poe’s scalp, but the slight pain is reassuring. It reminds Poe that this is real. He isn’t dreaming. And they’re really going to go be Starfighter pilots.

 _Best birthday ever_ , Poe decides. Nat hums back to him in complete agreement.

 

***

 

If Shara Bey had lived to see her son follow in her footsteps, she would’ve warned him not to pay attention to the stupid dares pilots always challenged each other to. She would’ve been utterly unsurprised when Poe didn’t listen, because that too is part of being a Starfighter pilot, but she would’ve warned him nonetheless.

But Shara died before she could pass that wisdom along, and Kes knows a lot of things but he isn’t a pilot. He doesn’t know that he needs to warn Poe about this.

Which is probably why Poe is currently confined to a bed in medical, weak as a half-starved pittin and convinced he never wants to move again.

“Seven Hells, Dameron, what have you done to yourself now?”

Poe directs a fuzzy sort of grin up at the doctor suddenly leaning into his range of vision. Or rather, at all three of her. It’s Kalonia, again—Poe thanks the Force that she’s the one on duty tonight and not Serre or Borj—with her nimble footed goat dæmon carrying a medical tray balanced on his golden horns.

“Heyya, Doc. Fancy seeing you here,” Poe mumbles blearily.

Nat whines at him. She’s curled up as tight as she can over his heart, fur to flesh so she can feel his heartbeat. The only thing keeping him from rolling over and hurling pathetically all over Kalonia’s shoes, Poe thinks, is Nat’s tiny spot of warmth.

Dr. Kalonia takes a second look at him and sighs. “I should’ve known,” she says exasperatedly. “Maker forbid one of you pilots ever end up here for legitimate medical reasons!”

Privately, Poe thinks this is an unfair statement. Bastian had been in just last week with a nasty burn to both of his hands—it had been so nice to have their dorm room to himself for a night—and all the cadets are required to be up to date on their vaccinations. Birth control is heavily recommended but _not_ required, though Poe doesn’t know any cadets who’d risk flunking out of the Academy because they got knocked up.

But birth control isn’t the only thing that the Academy doesn’t have an official stance on.

Kalonia runs a series of scans on him, pulling increasingly more ancient-looking scanners out of supply storage and cursing a blue streak at whatever results she gets back. “Listen, kid, I know it’s exciting to try and break secret Academy records. I know you fighter junkies all take that stupid challenge your last year before graduation. I even know why the top brass hasn’t laid down the law about this stretching business. But Poe, listen to me,” she says, quiet and urgent, wrapping her hand around Poe’s forearm. “Poe, you have _got_ to stop.”

“We got this far, didn’t we?” Poe says with a fierce jut of his chin. It’s not as effective as it could be, laying down on a medical cot with shivers wracking his body, but Poe hasn’t scraped and struggled his way to the top of his class for nothing.

 _Maybe we should listen to her_ , Nat mumbles into his chest.

Poe looks down at her as best as he can. _You want to stop? Now? When we’re so close to breaking Admiral Antilles’ record?_

“You got this far on sheer luck,” Kalonia declares. Her goat dæmon prances nervously behind her, hooves clacking against the floor. “If you go much farther, you risk permanently damaging your bond. I’m talking about real damage. Not just a little bit of stretching—this could sever you from your dæmon, or put you both in a coma, or worse.”

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence as Poe digests the doctor’s warning.

 _Kalonia’s the best doctor on base for a reason,_ Nat says finally. _This means a lot to me too, but what if something goes wrong? I don’t want to lose you._

Her voice is quiet, but resolute. Nataaria has never been shy, has never had trouble telling Poe or _anyone_ how she feels, and she sees the entirety of a problem where Poe might only see fragments or angles. And she is much, _much_ braver than he is.

It is Nat, more than the swirling nausea or the trembling that refuses to fade from his limbs, more than Kalonia’s terrifying prediction, that makes Poe take a deep breath. “I understand,” he says quietly, meeting the doctor’s eyes.

She studies him for a moment, her expression stoic and inscrutable, before she nods. “Will you let me run a couple more tests? There might be something I can give you to take away the tremors.”

“Yeah, doc,” Poe says on an exhale.

It’s only when she and her goat dæmon are out of sight that Poe allows himself to slump back into the pillows, all the strength collapsing out of him at once. He brings a shaky hand up to curl around Nat’s tiny body, clutching her close to his chest, and sighs again.

_We were gonna be the best Starfighter pilots in a generation._

He almost expects Nat to thwap him with her wing for the comment. Instead, she heaves her own sigh and starts humming something low and melodious, a tune that tugs fuzzily at the edges of Poe’s memory. After a few minutes, Poe realizes it’s an old Yavinese lullaby his mamá used to sing to them.

 _We still can be,_ Nat says when she comes to the end of the song. _We just have to work a little slower._

Poe doesn’t know how to do slow. His blood burns like engine fuel in his veins, pushing him faster harder farther, and his heart yearns for the open darkness of wild space. He tells Nat this, even though she’s the other half of his soul. She already knows.

 _But wouldn’t you rather stick around long enough to_ keep _being the best?_ she asks.

**Author's Note:**

> Finn—Isasha (protector of humanity); dwarf vornskr, a force-sensitive nocturnal canine predator native to Myrkr. Leanly muscled with an angular face and a whip-like tail.  
> Rey—Kazmiir (keeper or destroyer of peace); song serpent, a desert snake native to Proxima Dibal. Has a combination of sand-colored scales and iridescent feathers to protect vibrating respiratory membranes.  
> Poe—Nataaria (birthday of Christ); stonebat, mottled gray furred flying insectivore native to Yavin IV.  
> Shara—Qyn (wise, reasonable); vahitian bat, a subspecies commonly found across the galaxy  
> Kes—Azrah (flame); ursod, a polar mammalian predator from Yavin 8 with camouflageable fur  
> Iolo—Mya (born in the month of May); jocorro, a hand-sized flying mammal native to Bespin with delicate wings and a long feathered tail.  
> Karé—Laertes (God); rdavi bird, a hand-sized bird native to Garqi with red/orange plumage  
> Muran—Valara (powerful, strong); shreev, a meter-long flying mammal native to S’krrr. Blue furred insectivore, with a bare tail and long leathery wings.  
> Mace Windu—Qaehi (justice, magistrate); vornskr, force-sensitive canine native to Myrkr. The same thing as a dwarf vornskr—only, y’know, bigger.
> 
> Regarding Chaiyan: yes, she is a Force Ghost. yes, we are very familiar with her human. no, i'm not going to tell you who it is yet. Her name means "skilled warrior." she's a tusk cat, which is a 2 meter tall cat native to Naboo.
> 
> if you wanna ever wanna talk headcanons, or encourage me to write faster, hmu on [tumblr!](http://bogwitches.tumblr.com/)


End file.
